Neil Watson would find it at his flat when he arrived home and the writer wondered whether reading it would make him feel sad … or angry. Or just curious. Or perhaps the subject of blood would frighten him.
The writer began to type. The story had to be told. Little by little. Until everything was clear.
I saw you on the television around the same time as I learned what had happened to Brother William. I knew then that you were the one to help me. It was meant.
I could tell you all about the ruins at Stow Barton and what happened there in 1535 – but I’m sure you’d prefer to find out for yourself. Think of it as a kind of game. The blood game. I’ve made my first move and you’ve not responded. But I’m near you. I could reach out and touch you. I could even make you bleed.
There was more to say. There had to be more. But it could wait for a while.
Perhaps this was a dangerous game.
